A Bellagio By Any Other Name

Although the main purpose of the Italy trip was a Radiohead gig in Bergamo to fulfil my dream of seeing them live before I leave, we also spent two days in the Italian Lakes. We based ourselves in Bellagio, a little village on Lake Como. If you imagine Lake Como (see this map for best guidance) as a lithe, sinuous dancing girl in mid-step, you will come to realize the exceptionally pleasing location of Bellagio.

On the first night, Alec presented me with an inflatable sheep. I have received many bizarre love tokens from this man, including purple punk whore boots and a cigarette with “I love you” written on it, but an inflatable sheep complete with mascara’d eyes, coquette-red lips, beauty spots and, er, orifice, did rather push the boundaries. He said he could explain. He said he’d been thinking about how annoyed I get when bad weather on holidays makes for lousy photographs, but remembered how much I like sheep, and so he decided to get me a sheep so that I’d be happy even if we ran into bad weather. I think I’ll name her Bellagio.

The One Where Alec Does Strange Things With Food

The other day he popped out to get us some lunch. Standing in line in the cafe, reading the sandwich menu, he was delighted to see “fried banana” under “sausage” in the list of sandwich ingredients you could have. Elsewhere in his culinary explorations, he cooks a mean breadcrumbed bacon steak in whisky sauce, and apparently an alternative to the whisky sauce (although somehow we’ve never deviated from the booze route, you wonder why) you can actually do the bacon with fried banana.

So he reaches the counter, and happily orders a ham and fried banana sandwich, whereupon the poor confused cashier who is probably on the minimum wage and really doesn’t need this kind of weirdness goes “Huh?” and Alec rechecks the menu only to realize that it actually read “Fried sausage” and “Banana” rather than “Sausage” and “Fried banana”, banana presumably being sold in its capacity as fruity accompaniment to sandwich rather than actually lurking within, but by now it’s too late and he’s a bit confused too, so he says yes, he wants a ham and banana sandwich, and he gets this ham and banana sandwich and takes it back to the flat and says here, Michelle, a ham and banana sandwich.

Meanwhile, until recently there was a huge watermelon with a funnel in it on my dining table, and a bottle of Smirnoff. He was trying to infuse the melon with vodka.

How To Pleasure Your Girlfriend With Sheep

I probably big-up Alec here a bit more than is healthy for his ego, but really, what kind of guy dresses a ghetto blaster up as a sheep, complete with cotton balls for fluff and black socks on toilet rolls for hooves, and carries it across London to give his girlfriend at Christmas?

Judging from the malevolent looks he was apparently getting from other guys in the tube, some might say a specially sad kind of guy, but let me redeem him from male condemnation here.

I’m rather fond of sheep. I think they’re cute (and for the record, I think most baby animals, some human babies, and fuzzy things in general are cute too, so sue me). For my past two birthdays, Russ gave me these adorable sheep, which I’m inordinately fond of.

Alec, being a cynical old git, is less than enamoured with their ickle fuzzy nature. Add to this the fact that Russ has a proud tradition of giving me kickass presents, and has also thrown down some cybergauntlets of his own, and you get my boyfriend’s decision to dress his gift to me up as a big motherfucker of a sheep, and make it trample the two ickle ones.

[I should clarify: no bad blood actually exists between them. They accept each other as important people to me, who they care about, but also legitimate sources of mutual shameless wisecracking. I love both of them dearly, and all three of the sheep. I love my ghetto blasta’ from Alec (it plays MP3 CDs!) and my Daydream Nation on vinyl (with poster and promo photo of the band, press release, and cover print!) from Russ. I am a veritable love-fest these days, which is a nice if embarrassingly soppy thing to be.]

Warning: Awwwwwful

On days when you’re royally pissed off at everything and everyone because the computer eats the notes you’ve just finished typing, and you’re tired of never having a warm flat, or a TV that can receive more than BBC1, and you’re sick of having to sacrifice your study time while you’re stuck in the flat with a bumbling plumber trying to fix your sink, and always seem to be washing pans in aforementioned sink which you didn’t leave there, on days when this multitude of little flea-like annoyances accumulate and nibble continuously at the edges of your composure, you really appreciate a boyfriend who cooks and serves you chicken rice by candlelight, especially when he’s never eaten it in his life, comes from a culinary tradition of cabbage, potatoes and offal, and is at his wit’s end with the chilli because every recipe he consults tells him different things.

Awwwww.

Affirmation

In conversation the other day Alec told me his idea for starting his own website. It would be called Your Blog Is Shite, and he would write rants about how completely pathetic the blogging community is, with featured links to illustrate his points. He assured me he’d get to mine as soon as he could.

Continuing in this romantic and sensitive tradition, we’re going cottaging (dumb sleazy joke intended) for our first anniversary. Our cosy getaway of love is called The Hole.

Now I Know He Really Loves Me

Alec has earned a significant amount of boyfriend credit (spendable on forgotten anniversaries/birthdays, or uncalled-for “you look fat in that” remarks) by volunteering to buy us Sonic Youth tickets for their gig here in June (can’t wait, can’t wait), and actually following through on that promise the very next day. This from a man who forgot his own 21st birthday and enjoys traditional Irish music rather than my somewhat more abrasive tastes.

[Admittedly this compartmentalizes him too much. He was, after all, walking down the street with me just on Sunday holding a laminated bra in one hand and a lager-soaked jumper in the other. But that’s a long story.]

The Gayometer Has Spoken

So if Alec is 43% gay and Mark is only 40%, this makes my boyfriend even more of a raging queen than Her Majesty during the annus horribilis. Oh well. At least he cooks and cleans.

It’s Reassuring When

It’s reassuring when your pretty unfly white guy tells you he’s just gone out and bought a hookah. You know he means a water pipe, not a ho’.

My Biggest Fan

“If I’m really bored, I read Red Meat. And then if I’m really, really desperate, then I go read your site.” – My boyfriend, ever-affirming and supportive.

Strip-Club Defamation

Alec takes issue with my strip-club entry and demands an opportunity to clarify things. I see no reason for this defensiveness on his part. In my opinion the people teasing him about this all just secretly wish they had a boyfriend to go to strip clubs to with too, although I suppose I should make no such conclusions about Fr John.

Nevertheless, he feels besmirched and who am I to deny a good Irish Catholic boy the chance to dredge his reputation up from the muddy gutters it already languishes in?

(Published as received. All mistakes his.)

Michelle I demand that the following be printed in full on your web site.

Following the entry of January 7th, I find position in good society considerably undermined. In my defence……

* I was prompted to consider this entertainment by a friend (who shall remain nameless).

* Rather than show my distain outright and attach my friend’s moral shortcomings, I started to ruminate a more edifying scheme. Soon I had resolved that it would be more educational for my friend to be confronted not just by my own moral ire but also by the prospect of Michelle’s company throughout the performance. I pictured the scene thus; (friend sitting at table staring at stage with vacant, lecherous stare. Enter Alec and Michelle. Friend joyfully welcomes Alec to his world of filth. At this moment he recognises Michelle. I volunteer to purchase the drinks and exit stage right while friend is left to squirm, uncomfortably and make awkward chit chat with Michelle. Soon after friend is overcome by embarrassment and requests that we move to a more respectable venue)

* May I add that at this point the scheme was merely an amusing fancy which I mentioned to Michelle for our mutual amusement. However Michelle took to the scheme with an enthusiasm which was on the one hand, very worrying, but on the other quite infectious.

* The plan eventually came to nothing because the ‘club’ ceases performances at midnight. Anyone who knows Michelle will understand why this is a problem. As an aside may I suggest that any club which closes doors at midnight can only be mildly debauched.

* That evening was instead spent watching Austin Powers: the Spy who Shagged Me – and I’d didn’t feel at all disappointed.

In the last few days my good name has been dragged through the mud. Everywhere I go people make inquiries about this particular date and smile and wink and whisper behind my back. I have even had interested inquiries from my parish priest. Enough! I ask you the readers of this site to respond to this slander against my character my inundating this website with emails saying ‘Morally vindicated’.Michelle should not be allowed to use this site to spread half truths and lies just to satisfy the vulgar, sensationalist, tabloid interests of her readers (i.e. Mark).

Alec